COME ON YOU IRONS!
by Kuiakaituhi
Summary: Molly and Dave Dawes travel to witness West Ham win away from home. A very big win. They are ecstatic and let the residents of Royal Crescent know all about it. In the meantime, Bath Rugby, at home against the Wasps, get a hammering. Songs will be sung. Chants will be chanted. Heads will hurt. Hangovers will happen.


COME ON YOU IRONS!

 _ **I was a West Ham fan, from the other side of the world, long before I met my fellow fans Dave and Molly Dawes. The reason? The captain of our New Zealand national football team (currently and usually rubbish) is Winston Reid who plays for the Hammers and who has the distinction of scoring our country's only ever goal in a World Cup game. He and the Hammers were here in 2014 at about the same time as the action in "Our Girl" was happening. I saw them play, so I had one over Dave from the start.**_

 _ **So when I picked up the news of this extraordinary result and the news of the Bath rugby loss last weekend, a story started brewing in my head, even though I have another one on the boil. (Will get that done very soon, for those who are enjoying it).**_

 _ **As usual, I acknowledge the BBC and Tony Grounds as owner of these great characters. Am looking forward to what they are cooking up for us in South Africa.**_

Royal Crescent had never, in all its long genteel history, been subjected to such a racket. That the occupants of one rental van could create so much noise at 4.00 am was hard to believe. Lights snapped on in the upper bedroom storeys of the immediate neighbours of Number 20, which stayed stubbornly dark.

People all along the curve of houses, from 10 to 30, but particularly quickly at 18 and 22, were pulling curtains back and leaning out window in their night attire, in an almost unseemly and undignified display of curiosity. Really, one should not have to tolerate this level of tuneless chanting, blue language and raucous cheering in what was a rather special part of Bath. One would think oneself in some common cockney neighbourhood in London rather than in an elite and leafy protected Bath neighbourhood. Who on earth was responsible for this astonishing barrage of noise?

The immediate neighbours, soon enough, were able to see that very unusual young woman who seemed to have shifted in with that rather dishy young Captain James, whose parents had gone to the Continent on holiday. She was standing in the yard outside number 20. The captain had been looking after the place in his parents' absence, they had been told, just a security measure. The girl was a nurse, there to support the captain in his rehabilitation from wounds sustained whilst serving in Afghanistan. Did people think they were silly? Nurse, indeed! Charles looked very well these days and hardly in need of the services, full time, of a nurse. The neighbours always followed any reference to Captain Charles' 'nurse' with two nudges and a wink. Royal Crescent may not have heard noise of the current ear splitting variety but it had seen its fair share of romantic dalliances and suspect alliances over the centuries. A "nurse" to take care of a rather handsome Army officer while his parents were away? Really! Such utter tosh!

Right now, the young woman could not have looked less nurse-like. Hands on her hips and decidedly unstable on her legs, she was leaning heavily on an older man who appeared to be wearing a claret and blue football shirt and a pair of boxer shorts. No trousers. No shoes. Disgusting!

"Oi! Chaaarles! Come and get me! I'm hooooom,"she bellowed. "Chaaaaaarles, oi, Bossman, let me in. We won! West Ham bloody won! Me and me Dad's here. C'mon, we all want to have a drink wiv ya! West Ham won 5-1! We beat them Blackburn Rovers wankers easy as."

The van's sliding door slid open and out fell an assortment of bodies, all wearing some item or other of claret and blue West Ham strip.

"IRON! IRON! IRON! " This call to arms rang out around the crescent, followed by others well familiar to the chanters, but horribly foreign to the fastidious Bath locals. The assorted bodies propped one another up, some leaning on the metal fence, others on the sidewalls of the van.

"EMENIKE! EMENIKE! EMENIKE!" they called, followed by "PAAAY-ET! PAAAY-ET! PAAAY-ET!" Beer cans clanked together at the end of each chant and the group broke into song, looking much like the chorus from a very bad pantomime. The small woman with the extremely loud voice took on the role of conductor as the volume amped up. Clearly, she was trollied…

"West Ham till I die

I'm West Ham till I die.

I know I am I'm sure I am

I'm West Ham till I die."

More lights turned on in the houses, quite a few on the lower levels now as residents decided to take matters into their own hands and restore peace to the neighbourhood. At the same time a burly man dressed in football-neutral clothing, obviously the sober driver of the van, was trying very hard to collect up his drunken charges and get them back in the vehicle. He appealed to the young woman,

"Oi, Miss Dawes can you talk these boys into getting in? We've got to get going before the morning traffic gets heavy. I did wot I said I would, brought you safe and sound back to your posh boy fella. I got to get these tossers back to London!"

Right then the heavy front door to number 20 opened, slowly, slowly, just a little and cautiously, carefully, a dark curly head peered through.

"Jesus!" he blasphemed, shook his hair out of his eyes, scratched the back of his head and stepped out onto the porch. "What the fuck's going on, Molly? Have you brought the whole of the terrace crowd from Ewood Park with you?" He clutched his head now, rather as if he had a headache already before the arrival of this motley crew, led in song by his "nurse". Actually, it didn't take a lot to see that Charles James already had a monumental hangover.

He and a group of friends from his old days, pre-injury, pre-Army actually, who had played rugby for Bath seniors had spent the weekend together, drinking up large, telling each other blatant lies about women, drinking and rugby and getting totally pissed. The Bath-Wasps game was supposed to be the high light of the weekend. Truth be told, he couldn't remember much of the game at all, he'd had such a skinful. Probably just as well, because the Wasps had given them a real doing over. He vaguely recalled a taxi ride from the grounds to home, handing the driver a fistful of notes, falling through the door after a squinting struggle to fit the key in the hole and passing out on the leather sofa in the dayroom. He had been comatose for almost a whole day and night.

It had taken him a long time to surface when he first became aware of the rabble outside his parents' house and the cacophony they made. He could just make out a familiar voice and as he came to, recognised it as Molly's. How so much noise could come from such a little body, he could not fathom. But it did and it was making his already splitting headache even worse, especially when he could already conjure up the disapproving reports from the neighbours to his Mum and Dad eventually. He had to get her inside. How to do so, when every step he took sent shooting pains through his skull? He stretched himself upright, tossed his head from side to as if to shake out the pain and planted his feet on the porch, his hands on his hips. The scene in front of him, neighbourhood indignation aside, was actually bloody hilarious.

Dave, her Dad, must have found the constraints of trousers and shoes interfered too much with his drinking on the way home in the van. The other club reprobates who had poured themselves out on the pathway were in various states of disarray, but everyone else had their trousers on at least. They were winding up into a chorus of "I'm Forever Blowing Bubbles," as the sober driver fought a losing battle to get them back on board. Molly was conducting, of course.

She really was outrageous, there in her claret and blue strip, the shirt that had caused him so much trouble already, way back in Afghan. Her lucky shirt, she said. Mostly he remembered it over the top of those bloody shorts she used to wear. The ones that were almost his undoing when he called her into his tent one night in the FOB, the night she teased him about calling her "Dawsey" and suggested he might be falling for her incredible charm. As if! He was already totally gone as far as she was concerned only he wasn't admitting it to himself yet and certainly not to her.

The same shirt she wore in bed the night he had to come to her tent and wake her for an emergency strategy meeting about Bashira's safety. He had stood next to her bed drinking in the beauty of her face at rest. For one mad moment he had needed all of his officer training to keep him from getting onto the bed with her and tearing the bloody Hammer shirt off her and making love to her all the rest of the night long. To hell with Major Beck and all the rest of them in the officers' tent! Madness, all right! Whether she was in her dirty combats on patrol, around the FOB in a Tee shirt and her shorts or sleeping in her West Ham strip, he had wanted her very badly, right from the first time he laid eyes on her.

And now he had her. Or rather, she had him, all of him, forever. She owned him. The year since she had first come to him in Bath had been amazing for him and, he believed, for her. They had their own flat now and were planning a small, low key wedding in the spring. They spent every possible moment together, especially since she had arrived back from her second tour in Afghan. As Charles stood there in the cold, watching Molly perform, he recalled the fear he had felt the whole time she was away, the knowing that she was the only possible love for him now and that without her, he would be lost.

So this weekend away from one another was a big one. He had known about the Rugby match for ages, and had jumped at the chance to have a few days in h the Royal Crescent house whilst his folks were away. He would check that all was well at his childhood home, then spend some time with his mates.

Molly's trip to Blackburn had come about through a bribe. Her dad had long wanted her to agree to attend a match in her "bleedin' hero gear" as she mockingly called it and she had refused point blank. Dave had never been to the Boleyn Ground, even though he lived almost on top of it. And he was very, very proud of his girl….

Changes were afoot at West Ham. First of all, they were doing pretty well this season, which Molly found an amazement. The hope she had spoken of with the mortally wounded Sohail was paying off, Charles thought ruefully. Second, the club was leaving Upton after 112 years. There was a great deal of emotion amongst the fans as they contemplated the controversial move to the Olympic stadium. Lots of events were planned for the early part of the season, not the least, invitations to fans and club members who had done special things to be introduced to the crowds and to be "treated" in some special way to acknowledge their contribution to the Hammer story.

Dave sensed a softening in Molly in the past few weeks. He had been asked once again, if Molly would come. Of course, he would accompany her, all free of charge. She'd commented to her dad,

"Bbackburn's coming up. Would love to go to that bleedin' game. I think that's the weekend Charles is going 'is Rugby in Bath. I wonder… Tell you what, Dad, you talk to them big shots again. Tell them I might…just might come to a game in me Number Ones and ponce around the field with me Military Cross if they take you 'n me to Bradford. 'N bring us home. You to London, me back here to Charles."

Dave was not hopeful that the club officials would agree to a round trip of several hundred miles, so was astounded when there was no hesitation in arranging it. First, Molly had to appear at the ground on a match day and to agree to an online publicity story about her undying loyalty to the club and the act of courage which had led to the awarding of the medal. The Hammers were very proud of his girl and made much of her tiny stature and her enormous bravery. He had shared his feelings with Charles, probably the first time he had acknowledged the depth of his love for his daughter and his pride at her accomplishments. Charles had found this experience of listening to be very moving and both men had been a bit embarrassed to see the other with tears in his eyes.

Charles shook his head again and brought himself back to the 4.00 am winter pavement in Royal Crescent. The song had petered out and from where he was standing, it looked as if Molly was about to peter out as well. She was weaving more dangerously from side to side and her voice was fading fast. He swooped, picking her up in one easy movement. She wound her arms around his neck.

"Hi, Bossman!' she whispered. "We won! Love you, Bossman. I'm home wiv you now." She passed out immediately and Charles put her over his shoulder. Somehow or other, the driver had managed to coax, push and threaten the rest of his charges back into the van and was busy closing the panel door as Charles gave Dave the thumbs up. A chant could be heard, thankfully fading away as the van rolled on down the Crescent.

The lights on the neighbouring houses went out now the source of the unprecedented disturbance was gone. With his headache also gone now, Charles carried Molly up the stairs to their bedroom. She was out cold, so he stripped off her boots and jeans as well as her jacket. Pulling the duvet up, he had a small smile for himself as he realised that he would soon finally be in bed with the claret and blue shirt, which he could take off her if he really wanted to this time. Wouldn't be much point for several hours, though! Thinking ahead to that time, he put a very large glass of water and a strip of paracetamol tablets on her bedside table.

Charles had been well aware that Molly's "surrender" to the West Ham officials had a motivation other than getting a free round trip to a game in the North for her and her Dad. She had taken time on her second tour to Afghanistan to complete unfinished emotional business with Bashira and Sohail. In going to the Boleyn Ground with her medal, she was honouring the man who had told her she should do so and who had died in her presence on the very turf of West Ham's famous park.

Saying goodbye to Smurf in this very public display, but with its very private personal meaning was another piece of completion. One that would clear the way for them to let the Welshman who had loved her so much to truly Rest in Peace. And let their love grow even stronger.

 _ **I hope you enjoy this and offer me some encouragement to keep going by reviewing my work. It's going to be interesting to see how the Hammers go this weekend.**_


End file.
